


Final Prayer

by BARALAIKA



Category: Demon's Souls
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Hymen Breaking, Marriage, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24916708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BARALAIKA/pseuds/BARALAIKA
Summary: She would rot with him in that swamp, their bodies festered together into worthless, pestilent meat.
Relationships: Maiden Astraea/Garl Vinland
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Final Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Remake!!

To copulate in such squalor must have been a sin it itself, but Astraea’s hands were so sullied that it didn’t seem to matter any more.

She linked her arms around her dedicated, adoring knight’s neck and pulled him down towards her ever closer. Garl smelt of the musk of a man who had been on the road for far too long and she was little better herself, but Astraea found that she never seemed to mind. The scent of her protector was one of safety, security, bravery and love; she pressed her pretty, porcelain-pallid face into his grimy hair, hung in greasy tangles around his shoulder and took a deep sniff, flooding her senses with Garl, rather than the putrescence that surrounded them.

  
“Art thou afraid, my lady?” Garl asked, voice low and soft as he leant against his elbows in the gritty mud. Astraea’s skirts were hiked around her hips, her back rested on her travelling cloak to keep her skin away from the filth. He had only to unlace his hose and pull his surcoat aside to free his cock and he hovered by the heat of her throbbing cunt.

Astraea’s grip tightened.

“.. yes. But not of you,” she whispered. “ _Never_ of you.”

They should not have been engaging in such folly, but the axe hovered over their necks— they were being hunted.

Garl grunted and shifted his weight, so he could dip his cock down through the hot, wet lips of his beloved lady’s beautiful, hairy cunt. He knew how soft and golden she was between her legs, how plush her thighs and the swell of her hips and belly, full from the easy pace of maidenly life— she rode a horse at most times and was not strong enough to march as Garl did, her pace so slow by his side. She was a scholar and a nun, not a warrior. Well-fed and rounded, his hands could sink into her sumptuous flesh when he claimed her body and pleasured her, _worshipped_ her, as a man should his wife.

Was it such a sin to adore each other this way?

“If... nay, _when_ we leave here,” Garl began to speak, somber enough for Astraea to loosen her grip. She laid back and gazed up into his eyes, then cupped his cheek with one hand. “... My lady, wouldst thou grant me thy hand? In the eyes of our Lord and King?”

He still thought that they could leave. That alone broke Astraea’s heart a thousand times and her tears finally fell down her cheeks and into her ears.

“Oh, Garl. We have no Lord. Not any more,” she reminded him gently, her sad smile quivering as she stroked his greasy hair. “ _I_... am as close as we shall ever have to one. And... I bless us. My hand is yours, as it has ever been.”

She offered the back of her hand toward Garl’s lips and he pressed them to her knuckles, eyes screwed shut and blurry with tears. Wordlessly, he sobbed into Astraea’s fingers and pressed his hips down into hers, linking their bodies for the first time.

The head of his cock pressed against resistance and Garl dug against his maiden’s silken cunt. Gentle gasps of pain met his attempts at defloration and Astraea cringed into her beloved’s shoulder as she pressed her face into him. He slid through her lips, jabbed her bone, her urethra, then found his mark lower down. 

Astraea’s grip tightened as she cried out... and bled.

She would rot with him in that swamp, their bodies festered together into worthless, pestilent meat. Corrupted together, wilful monsters.

They both knew she’d done more for the discarded, twisted swamp-dwellers than anybody else ever had— her heart ached for each child that cried for her from the plague-ridden mire and the resignation that she would never bear her own. There was not enough time and surely, she was barren.

No other sound but their gasps, the wet smack of bodies and Astraea’s gentle sobbing reached their ears. Garl could not tell if rapture or sorrow consumed her, but he fucked her all the same— lost to his desire and the pleasure of flesh that he denied himself for so long. It did not feel as a sin. Rather, the strangling heat of his maiden’s cunt and the clumsy, instinctual shunt of his thick, muscular hips were a praise in itself. An act of worship for the woman he loved above all else.

The worship of a demon.

The Slayer found her defiled, the blood of hymen split running through the first seed of a holy man. All pretence of purity lost. Dishevelled and human, sat on an island amongst the filth of a thousand wombs, awaiting their death sentence.

Her legs closed, denying her executioner her body and the heavy footsteps of her protector clattered against the tight-packed ground, then into the uterine mire that burned at the bodies of hunter and knight alike.

Astraea’s hands clasped as she whispered her final prayer.


End file.
